


moon and planet and sun

by TheGoodDoctor



Category: Lara Croft: Tomb Raider (Movies)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Light Angst, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-01 20:31:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15151250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGoodDoctor/pseuds/TheGoodDoctor
Summary: “You told him what?” he says, hearing the squeak in his own voice. Bryce is sat next to him sputtering, which makes him feel slightly better about it.Lara grimaces apologetically. “He really wasn’t getting the message…”





	moon and planet and sun

**Author's Note:**

> i've never been the first person to use a relationship tag on ao3  
> it's quite exciting
> 
> i'm a pioneer

It all started rather innocuously. Hillary has been working for Lady Croft for long enough to know that this should have been warning enough.

Lara is reporting back from the depths of the rainforest, just finishing her hunt for El Dorado - or, as it turned out, a city that had long ago been cursed like Midas due to a gem in the central temple. Hillary sips his tea, content to sit silent and let waves of relief wash over him as she fills him and Bryce in on her adventures to find and destroy the stone, passing statues of solid gold that had once been people to prevent such a thing ever happening again.

“Not bringing us back a souvenir, then?” Bryce says and Hillary is silently grateful as Lara laughs, the melancholy note leaving her voice. “Petrified golden llama?”

“A little tacky, don't you think, darling?”

Hillary sits up, staring at the screen from which Lara’s voice emanates instead of into the milky depths of his tea. Bryce, eyes similarly wide, spins in his seat to stare at him and then back at the screen. “Y-you know me,” he manages, “classy as ever.” _Darling?_ he mouths at Hillary in confused panic.

Lara laughs, unaware of or unconcerned by the confusion on the other end. “Oh, I love you anyway.” Before they can unravel this, a man's voice rumbles something on her end and she sighs. “Sorry, Bryce, must dash if I'm to catch this boat. See you soon!” With that chirpy farewell, the line goes dead.

Bryce spins his chair slowly to face the still Hillary. “That wasn't just me,” he says. “She was - she was being more...flirty...than usual, right?” Hillary blinks, unmoving. Bryce gestures wildly, agitation flowing into his hands. “I mean - darling? I love you? Just - what?”

Hillary gets a hold of his rampant, raging jealousy and shoves it into its usual compartment with practised ruthlessness. He sniffs officiously and stands. “You heard; the young man. She's probably just making him jealous.” Hillary has spent too long being in love with Lara to think much more of her usual absent flirting; this is no different.

Bryce nods distractedly and turns back to his computer, not without disappointment. Besides, it's so much easier to think of losing Lara to some exotic Latin lover than to her domesticated geek, when Hillary has been here just as long and just as-

He stops. There's no real evidence that they are losing her, anyway. He pats Bryce's shoulder sympathetically, recompense for his words and thoughts both, and returns his rather sorry smile with one of his own.

* * *

Hillary makes himself wait a full thirty seconds after Bryce alerts him to Lara's arrival on the grounds before standing and opening the heavy oak door. It wouldn't do for either of them to know that he was been sitting next to the front door for most of the morning, butler turned faithful hound, waiting for the master's return.

He leaves the door wide and steps out onto the gravel as Lara gets out of an unfamiliar car. The driver follows her out, shoving his hands into the pockets of his smart suit and squinting up at the manor house, and Hillary guesses this is the - not Latin, as it turns out - lover.

Lara grins when she spots him approaching. “Hillary!”

He can't help but smile back, much though he attempts to tone it down to hide from the lover. “Hello, Lara. How was the flight?”

She rolls her eyes. “Awful.” Then, Lara reaches out and-

well-

kisses him.

She takes him gently by the elbow and leans in, gently pressing her lips to the corner of his mouth. It's far too intimate for friends or colleagues, hardly a brush on the cheek, and Hillary is certain he looks at least as astonished as he feels. Lara has kissed his cheek before, but only on very special occasions: once, when she had been rather seriously poisoned by a rival in Peru and he had managed to scrape up an antidote, she had been so sure of dying that she had laughed, kissed him, laughed some more and then sobbed for five solid minutes into his shoulder; and second, she had requested his presence at a party she was halfway through attending and, at his arrival, had brushed her lips across his face to whisper-beg him to pretend they were dating.

Lara has that same desperate edge to her pleased expression, so he attempts to calm his surprise - at least externally - and reaches up to squeeze her arm.

Lara beams, catching that he’s understood her thinking, and plays off his residual surprise masterfully. “Oh! Hillary, I am sorry, I didn't tell you we would have a guest! This is John Wyndham-Quin, he'll be staying a while. Would you make up a guest room?”

Wyndham-Quin smiles tightly at Hillary, and he sees where his place is in all this. John doesn't want a guest room; he had been angling to invite himself into Lara’s bedroom, not just her house. Hillary, then, is a buffer - the pretend suitor to deter the real one.

The thought makes him smile.

“Of course, Lara,” he says sweetly. “Will the blue suite do?”

She raises an eyebrow at him, her back to her guest, and grins. The blue suite is the smallest in the manor and is where her father put unwanted guests. “I imagine it would do, yes,” she says lightly.

Wyndham-Quin is impatient, scuffing his toe into the gravel, and Hillary gives her arm one last squeeze before letting go, a gentle suggestion that she tend to her guest rather than smile gently at him. She rolls her eyes and turns back to John. “Going to give me the grand tour, Lara?” he says, voice almost calculatedly smooth. With his sharp grey suit and perfectly polished accent, he immediately looks more at home here than Hillary ever has. This rankles, like a crease in a perfectly pressed cloth.

“Of course,” Lara says, without much enthusiasm.

“Our bags are in the back,” the man throws over his shoulder to Hillary, swaggering up the steps to the house.

Lara shoots him an apologetic look as she follows him in. “Do you want a-”

“No, you go on.” Hillary offers her a smile and waves her away. She looks a bit sorry to leave him, which makes him feel a little better about the enviable suitor, but in truth he would much rather not be with her for a moment.

He opens the boot of the Lexus and, shielded, shuts his eyes and breathes out shakily. His mind can't stop replaying the kiss, sudden and sweet and over too soon. He had smelt her perfume, felt her lips, had her hands on him, and - it wasn't real, but he can’t help but grin. He’s been mostly in love with Lara as long as he’s known her, ever since he was hired to serve the young Lady Croft. She had gone through three butlers in as many weeks and frankly, the agency was scraping the barrel with him, but she’d taken a shine of sorts to him, expressed largely through attempting to pummel him into the library floor whilst holding long conversations on Greek mythology. When he had only improved and given her a verbal essay on Persephone within a week, Hillary had been given the distinct impression he had passed some sort of test; the agency was instructed not to send any more staff, and ever since Hillary has been spending half his time trying to box his feelings for her into submission and the other half lovestruck by the slightest thing she does. The kiss has had the somewhat liberating effect of disintegrating the mental compartments in which he hides his feelings; Hillary’s brain is now entirely dedicated to affection. Perhaps he’s died and gone to heaven, he muses as he removes cases from the car. Perhaps this is a reward for all the good he’s done on earth.

He closes the boot and looks up, spots Lara at a window. She grins and waves her fingers, almost beckoning. Hillary offers her a hand in reply, unable to control or prevent his smile, and has no choice but to obey and enter.

It must have been very bloody good, whatever he did, if he’s getting paid to “pretend” to love Lara Croft.

_Pretend._

The reminder hurts, suddenly and viscerally, and he winces as he hauls the stranger’s suitcase up to the suite. He loves her, more than words can say, and this - this play-pretend to avoid another lover, one Lara has probably had and tired of but can't quite bear to turn down without cause - might be as much as he ever gets of her. She surely doesn’t love him as he does her.

Perhaps he really has died, and this is no heaven, but hell. Perhaps this other lover and this Tantalus-esque _thing_ with Lara is his punishment for sins committed in another life.

Hillary places Lara’s bag on her bed and begins to unpack it, blinking back tears. His hand clenches in a particularly soft shirt and he allows himself a moment of pity. _No-one deserves this, whatever I did._

Then he sniffs, straightens, smoothes his hand across the shirt and wrangles his every emotion back into their broken boxes. He’s got too much to do.

* * *

Lara manages to sneak away from Wyndham-Quin after lunch and sequesters Hillary, Bryce and herself away in the caravan. Hillary has a feeling he knows what’s she’s about to tell them: he’s the fake suitor, so Bryce shouldn’t run about denying it.

Lara is Lara, though, so of course he’s surprised.

“You told him _what_?” he says, hearing the squeak in his own voice. Bryce is sat next to him sputtering, which makes him feel slightly better about it.

Lara grimaces apologetically. “He really wasn’t getting the message…”

Hillary nods slightly hysterically. “So you told him you had not one other lover, but two. Who just happen to be us. Right.”

She grins hopefully. “It’ll be fun.”

“Can we get fired if we say no?” Bryce says, frowning into the middle distance. Hillary can’t quite work out how his colleague feels about all this, which is proving rather disruptive to how _Hillary_ is feeling about all this.

“No,” he says over Lara’s pout. “It would be breach of contract, or something unethical like that.”

“Please don’t say no,” Lara says.

“Oh, I’m not going to,” Bryce says. He seems rather excited about the whole thing, now that he’s adjusted to the idea. “I was just checking. Sounds fun, right?” he says, nudging Hillary in the ribs. Lara turns her soulful begging eyes upon him.

He is weak; he is but human. “Fine,” he sighs, and Lara and Bryce grin at each other. “How long is he staying, anyway?”

Lara shakes her head. “Not long. He’s going as soon as I can make him. Unfortunately, Aunt likes him and would rather like us to settle down; John will stay as long as he can, if he thinks he can get a part of my dowry.” Hillary and Bryce puff up like indignant pigeons and Lara smiles. “He won’t get any, of course, but he will try.”

“So what changes?” Hillary says, always trying to maintain a handle on the situation.

Lara shrugs. “Not much. We’ll all eat together and try to tolerate John, and do our own things in the day as usual. We don’t have to be too demonstrative.”

“Alright,” Bryce says, fiddling with the tiny robot in his lap and already bored of the conversation. “I’ll see you when I’ve dressed for dinner, then.”

Lara and Hillary share looks of mild exasperation with their unceremonious dismissal and he holds the door open before following her out. Wyndham-Quin, like the proverbial bad penny, is standing on the steps to the house as if he’s been looking for Lara. Hillary offers her an elbow easily, enjoying the way she wraps her hands around his arm and tucks herself into his side. John frowns when he spots them, clearly walking away from Bryce.

“Hi, John,” Lara says.

“Can I help you, sir?” Hillary asks politely.

John gestures to Hillary, but is clearly speaking to Lara. “Does he call you _sir_ too? Or is it ma’am?”

“Don’t be crude,” she says, unamused. Hillary places a hand on hers and squeezes gently; as intended, her grip loosens to something less...crushing.

“Because then I could see the appeal of doing the staff.” He says _staff_ like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth and Hillary barely succeeds in not bristling defensively at the tone alone. “And I suppose she can fire you, can’t she, rather than deal with the messy break-up?” he says, all mock-politeness as he addresses Hillary in person at last.

It takes all of his training to maintain a calm face as Lara unconsciously digs her nails into his arm. “I suppose she could, sir,” he says calmly, giving the title the same treatment Wyndham had bestowed upon _staff_. “But Crofts are better than that, don’t you think?” He smiles at Lara, the usual fondness bleeding into the gesture despite his rage, and she settles, smiling back more or less genuinely with just the slightest edge of fury.

She turns back to John and raises an eyebrow. He looks like he’s just swallowed a lemon, face pinched in irritation. “Lara, won’t you show me the library whilst your butler prepares for dinner?” he says, voice clipped.

Lara looks at Hillary first and he nods his approval of the plan, even as he mourns the warmth of her pressed into his side. She disentangles her arms slowly, trailing her fingers down his arm and giving him a look that _isn’t for his benefit, is just to keep up the illusion, good God man now isn’t the time to get turned on_ as she leads John in.

Hillary takes half a second to himself to take a deep breath, upon which he chokes when Bryce speaks up behind him. “Jesus,” Bryce says conversationally, “she’s going to kill us.”

Hillary presses a hand to his chest and folds double. “Don’t do that,” he mutters, straightening. “And I don’t know what you mean.”

Bryce looks at him assessingly and deems him, not incorrectly, a liar. It is therefore no surprise that he follows Hillary down into the kitchens when he tries to escape, sitting on a work surface as Hillary raids the fridge for enough for the four of them. “The flirting. It’s going to kill us. Or you, anyway.”

He glares around the fridge door at Bryce, swinging his feet unconcernedly. “It isn’t. And why me, specifically?”

Bryce’s legs still. “You kept it really quiet, mate,” he says softly. He’s giving off sympathy, and Hillary hasn’t the faintest idea what to do with it all. “I didn’t know, honest, until a moment ago, but when she looked at you like that I really thought you were going to explode on the spot.”

Hillary ducks down behind the island for a moment to process this, grabbing a chopping board as he goes. “Wait,” he says nervously, standing back up and brandishing the board and a cleaver mostly accidentally at Bryce. “Did she see?”

He shakes his head and Hillary breathes out in relief, laying the board on the work top and beginning to dice some onions. “Why won’t you say anything?” Bryce says, legs swinging again.

He snorts. “I haven’t the slightest chance with Lara. I accepted that long ago. Oil, please.”

Bryce twists to grab the bottle behind him and pass it to Hillary as he takes a large copper saucepan down from the rack hanging from the ceiling. “Why don’t you have a chance? You’re the only person I know who can keep up with her.” Hillary scoffs derisively but says nothing, fussing over the hob. Bryce is watching him drizzle oil into the pan and slide the finely-chopped onions in after when he says “You’ve a better chance than I have.”

Hillary looks up, but Bryce keeps watching the pot. “You love her too,” he says, not so much a response as a realisation.

Bryce shrugs. “Can you blame me?” he says with a sad smile.

Hillary offers him a sympathetic half-grimace. “No, I suppose I can’t. I didn’t know.”

“To think we had all this in common for so long,” Bryce sighs, eyes smiling, and Hillary huffs a laugh, shifting the sizzling onions and emptying a container of beef mince into the pan.

“You haven’t got a worse chance than me, you know,” Hillary says.

“Very kind,” Bryce says dryly.

“I mean it. _No-one_ can keep up with you, you’re irreplaceable.” Hillary busies himself with emptying a whole can of chopped tomatoes into the pan and collecting vegetables so that he doesn’t have to look at Bryce as he says so. He hands the other man some carrots and a peeler. “If you’re going to sit on my counters you might as well do something,” he says when Bryce opens his mouth to complain. “I’m serious about Lara, though.” Hillary de-seeds and chops a bell pepper efficiently.

“Sure,” Bryce says skeptically, flipping the carrot in his hands before beginning to peel it. “I’m a computer nerd who’s been on one date since university and didn’t go on that many before - beautiful adventurers are just lining up to live in my caravan.”

“You could always live in the manor, like a sane person,” Hillary suggests, shooting him a glance alongside the tease. Bryce glares back, reducing an age-old argument to just this exchange. “But really,” Hillary says, catching the peeled carrot Bryce lobs at his head, “there’s no reason I’d have a better chance than you. You’re closer in age to each other, you both like those...science-fiction books-” he says, waving a hand absently, “-and you’ve a first-class mind. She’d be lucky to have you.”

There is a long silence as Hillary continues slicing carrots and adding them to the pot. He casts around for the last one, and looks up to see Bryce still holding it, smiling slightly and - well, he would say _fondly,_ but this is Bryce. It comes off a little odd on him.

“Thanks,” he says at last, tossing the last carrot at Hillary.

He clears his throat and goes back to chopping. “Yes, well.” Hillary slides the carrot into the pan and looks up, put off by the silence, squinting at Bryce. “Are you alright? Have I...broken you?”

Bryce laughs and ducks his head, but not enough that Hillary doesn’t see his eyes suddenly widen. He hops off the counter. “Yeah, fine. I’ll see you at dinner, yeah?”

Hillary stares after him as the door swings on its hinges with the force of his sudden exit, trying desperately to figure out what, exactly, just happened.

* * *

Dinner is, as expected, painful.

Hillary had been hoping for at least solidarity from Bryce, but the man opposite him won’t meet his eyes all evening. Lara and John are being snappish and smarmy by turn and Hillary is trapped between them, becoming more and more unhappy as the meal drags on. It’s a relief to get up at regular intervals to fetch the next course, even if his every departure is accompanied by something snide from Wyndham-Quin and his every return sees the three tense and silent as if barely restrained from leaping across the table to attack.

Wyndham-Quin shows little interest in Lara’s life, thoughts and hobbies and none in those of Bryce and Hillary, preferring to ask questions that can dovetail neatly into him talking about himself in the best light possible with the minimum of his having to listen to the others. From this, Hillary learns that Wyndham-Quin is a) rich, b) entitled, c) pretentious and d) did he mention rich. He’d probably detest him even if he didn’t make Lara and Bryce obviously uncomfortable by trying to insinuate himself between them figuratively or literally, taking every opportunity to tell Lara that she’d be better off with him - not so overtly, of course, the man has _some_ concept of social nicety, but, still.

Hillary almost doesn’t serve dessert or ask if anyone would like coffee, desperate to escape this hellish dinner, but he is a Croft family butler and he does have standards. The look on Lara’s face suggests she wouldn’t have minded very much, but that really isn’t the point.

“No coffee for me, thanks,” John says languidly, leaning back in his chair. “Once you’ve had Argentinian coffee fresh from the roaster you really can’t go back, but don’t let me stop you.”

Lara’s face hardens. “A cup of that nice Ethiopian stuff, if you wouldn’t mind, darling.”

“Not at all,” Hillary says, trying desperately to convey using just his eyes that he appreciates the anti-Wyndham-Quin sentiment, he really does, but they’ll be stuck with him longer if they have coffee.

Bryce, oddly, comes to the rescue. “Why don’t we have it in our room?” he suggests casually. “No reason for our guest to stay up to watch us drink.”

John opens his mouth to object but Lara breezes over him. “Perfect. You were saying you’d like to go out riding tomorrow, weren’t you? Better rest up if you’re to show us all the jumps you promised. Hillary, can you manage the coffee? Bryce and I shall run you a bath.”

With that, Lara leaps up, grabs Bryce’s hand and pulls them to the door. Hillary marches to the other door into the kitchen. Wyndham-Quin is left gaping like a fish in their wake.

* * *

Hillary collects the coffee things and carries them up to Lara’s rooms. He knocks with his elbow and the door opens enough for Bryce to peer at him and then haul him, tray and all, into the room.

“Mind the coffee,” he chides gently, stabilising the tray and placing it on a chest of drawers.

“Hillary, you’re a saint, and Bryce, you’re a genius,” Lara says, flopping onto her back on the bed.

“Oh, I’ve hardly done anything, really,” Hillary says, as Bryce echoes “It wasn’t that good.”

Lara shakes her head. “Honestly, boys, that was the worst dinner of my life and you two were invaluable.” Hillary offers her a mug and she sits up and winks. “Your presence shamed me out of murdering him.”

“The days when I am not an accessory or a witness are days I count as blessed,” Hillary replies dryly and the others laugh. “Really, Bryce was more use than me. Sorry Lara.” He settles opposite Lara, leaning his back against the chest of drawers.

Lara shakes her head incredulously. “I was not!” Bryce objects, almost spitting out his coffee in his haste to sit up from his position, sprawled on the rug between their feet. “I may have got us out in the end, but only because if you sat there and took his abuse like a damn stone statue any longer I’d have punched him.”

“Here here,” Lara says, toasting them both with her mug from her pose, reclined with elegant ease on the bed. Hillary snaps his eyes away before they get stuck on her curves and ends up with them locked on Bryce, who seems to be staring back for similar reasons.

Lara narrows her eyes at them both. “You two are getting on suspiciously well this evening. Common enemy?”

Hillary shrugs. “In part. We’ve more in common than we’d thought.”

“Like what?”

Bryce looks alarmed and Hillary rescues them both, raising his mug. “Our love of sub-par Ethiopian coffee, for one.”

Lara rolls her eyes and flops back onto the bed. “God, yes. What an _arse._ ”

“When is he going?” Bryce says rather pleadingly.

“Believe me, boys, I am working on it.” Lara huffs, blowing a strand of hair out of her eyes.

Bryce entirely fails to hide a jaw-cracking yawn behind one hand and Hillary can’t help the briefest of half-smiles. He nudges him with his foot. “Can’t stay up with the other grown-ups?”

“Shut up, old man,” he replies without much venom. Hillary rolls his eyes and huffs anyway, more for the show of the thing than anything else.

Lara sits up, amusement gone from her face. “What,” Hillarys says dubiously. “What now?”

“You can’t leave,” she says very seriously. They blink, uncomprehending, back at her. “He’s expecting you to stay. He thinks these are _our_ rooms. You can’t leave; you’ll have to sleep here.”

* * *

The resulting argument is longer than it is productive, and ends as it had begun: Lara adamant, Hillary resistant, Bryce seesawing wildly and the end result foregone.

“I should have given him rooms further from yours,” Hillary moans, slumping to the floor against the wall furthest from the others.

“Stop being such a wuss,” Lara declares. “I’m going to have a shower. Bryce, don’t let him run away.”

“On it,” he says, as Lara picks up her pajamas and steps over him, still sprawled on the floor, to enter her en suite.

Hillary makes to stand and Bryce rolls over, flopping his upper half across the butler’s legs. “What- what are you doing?” he sputters.

The boneless lump commonly known as Bryce gives its best approximation of a shrug. “Told Lara I was on it, didn’t I.”

“Well, I don’t think this was what she meant. Nor do I appreciate being called _it,”_ Hillary says, trying unsuccessfully to wriggle out from beneath him. “Damn it, man, my legs are going numb.”

Bryce gives in, rolling off and settling in front of the door. Hillary stands stiffly and removes one pillow and a blanket from Lara’s nest of bedding. “What are you doing, then?”

“Making up somewhere to sleep.”

“Why?” Bryce frowns. “Lara said-”

“I know what Lara said,” Hillary forces out through gritted teeth. “I just don’t think it would be a very good idea for me to sleep in the same bed as her. I don’t want her to feel at all - uncomfortable.”

There is a long, prickly pause. “You can’t seriously be saying you don’t trust yourself,” Bryce says flatly, with an edge which HIllary is not accustomed to hearing on him.

Hillary looks up, deeply offended. “Excuse me - it isn’t that at all.”

Bryce’s face relaxes from its monolithic scowl. “Good. Was worried I had a higher opinion of you than you did for a moment there.”

“Wouldn’t that be something,” Hillary says tiredly, going back to his makeshift bed.

“I have a high opinion of you!” Bryce objects.

“You don’t show it,” he replies; not an accusation but an observation.

Bryce shuffles in his seat uncomfortably. “Well - sorry, then. I do, you know.”

Hillary stills in the not-quite-comfortable pause, itching for some way out. He’s never quite been... _good_ at this, this emoting business. He sort of wants to say _thanks,_ and _I like you too._ Except he doesn’t want to do that at all, because telling people about his feelings is hard and what if (unlikely, but possible) Bryce takes it poorly, was joking?

“Yes, well,” Hillary says in the end, clearing his throat awkwardly, “that’s quite enough emotion for one evening.”

Bryce chuckles. He doesn’t seem to mind much that Hillary can’t/won’t reciprocate on the expressive front, and it’s nice to think that their friendship just - _works_ like this. It’s...comfortable, Hillary decides, and a soft smile creeps over his face and directs itself at Bryce before he can quite think to stop it.

Lara returns, wearing sheer white silk with her hair wrapped up in a towel. He’s seen her in this before - in less, even - through his work and her general lack of boundaries or shame, but he’s still struck by how absolutely damn _unfairly_ attractive she is. Lara is only vaguely aware of it, too; she knows she’s beautiful, she’s had more than enough lovers to know that and the Croft mansion does contain reflective surfaces, but it never seems to occur to her that Hillary and Bryce might know it too.

Hillary, fortunately, is well-practised in not reacting. Bryce, however, is not. He turns a rather impressive shade of red, mumbles some kind of excuse, and flees into the bathroom.

Lara raises an eyebrow and Hillary returns a shrug: lying by omission, rather than outright or - yet worse - telling the truth. She shakes her head in fond exasperation and begins towelling her hair. “Sorry to put you through all this,” she says.

Hillary shrugs again, although she probably can’t see him through the curtain of her hair. “At least this task is fairly low-peril.”

“It’s still rather above-and-beyond,” she points out.

 _For duty, yes,_ Hillary thinks, _but not love. Not for you._ “I’m not entirely sure what duty entails, after working for you for so long.”

Lara laughs and flips her hair back in an effortlessly sexy gesture. Then she spots his makeshift bed and her face hardens. “What’s this?”

Hillary frowns back, determined. “I’m not throwing you out of your own bed, Lara.”

“I’m not suggesting you do,” she returns, just as unmoving. “I am suggesting we share nicely like good little boys and girls.”

“We won’t all fit.”

“We’ll get cosy.”

Hillary huffs and folds his arms. “Lara, just - let me have this. I’m spending all day with you and Bryce for the foreseeable future and-” _I want it, I want it all so much - too much -_ “-and now I would like some space for the night.” _I can’t have it, can’t want it this much, I need time to get over it, please, Lara._

Lara sighs quietly and looks away first, effectively conceding the argument. Hillary is grateful for this; any longer and he might have given in, ruined everything between them. “It’ll be murder on your back,” she says, unable to resist the parting shot even as she admits defeat.

“I know,” he replies easily, leaning against the wall and trying not to watch Lara, cross-legged on her bed, get ready for sleep. He tries not to want this every night, forever.

He fails.

Bryce sticks his head around the door in a cloud of steam. “Um, Hillary, we don’t have anything to sleep in.”

Hillary closes his eyes and resists the urge to bash his head repeatedly against the wall behind him. Then, because he was hired to solve problems, he fishes out a pair of Lara’s old sweatpants and a shirt he thinks should fit Bryce’s small frame and throws them at the bathroom door. Bryce disappears again, reappearing quickly dressed in Lara’s clothes.

He spreads his arms, grinning. “How do I look?”

“Twirl, then,” Lara says, amused. He does so happily; Lara laughs and Hillary can’t quite stop his grin. “They fit you very well,” Lara declares.

Bryce looks down at himself, tugging at the shirt curiously and pointing one toe. “I think a ladies cut suits me.”

Lara tilts her head and her grin gains a wicked edge. “I think I quite like you wearing my clothes.”

Hillary sees Bryce visibly swallow hard before he has to close his eyes and attempt to subtly control his breathing. He’s practised at not reacting to Lara, damp and loose from the hot water and less dressed than he can calmly handle, but not reacting to Bryce, hot and happy in _Lara’s_ clinging clothes that emphasise his slim hips and neat ribs - not reacting to Lara, possessive and predatory over the sense of ownership given by Bryce in her clothes - this is somewhat outside his remit.

“Excuse me,” he says, opening his eyes. Lara and Bryce don’t appear to have noticed his little moment, too caught up in each other to bother with him, and he shoots Bryce a significant look as he crosses behind him to enter the bathroom.

Door closed behind him, Hillary leans against it and releases all his breath in one long, shuddering sigh. Bryce was right - this is going to kill him. He is nothing if not efficient, however, so puts his breakdown on hold until he is undressed and in the shower, hot water beating down upon his shoulders.

Then he really goes for it.

He knew well enough that Bryce likes her - well, alright, he didn’t, not until a few hours ago, but now that he does it’s very, very obvious and it explains plenty about why Bryce never left to join MI6 or IBM or every other firm that’s been begging for him. It’s certainly better than the mumbled half-arsed excuses about the manor, when the man’s been living in a caravan on the drive ever since he got here.

He also knew well enough that in no future he could fathom would Lara Croft end up with him, Hillary, the butler. Even if she had fallen for him (unlikely), the aunts would never allow it, and he could never stand up to the aunts. He’d had a fever a year or two ago and Lara and Bryce both claim he had suffered from terrifying Great Aunt Henry-related fever dreams.

So he’s not - surprised, exactly, that Lara and Bryce appear to be having some kind of a thing on the other side of the bathroom door. It does, however, hurt really quite badly, and he would very much like to be back in the comfort of his own rooms behind a locked door where he can quietly work all this out on his own.

He wants - he wants - he wants too much, and he can’t have any of it, and, well. No use in crying over it.

Hillary draws his head up and finishes scrubbing his skin and hair until it’s red and raw, resolutely not thinking about what Lara and Bryce are doing, sounds muffled by driving water, and not thinking about how possessive Lara might be feeling, smelling her soap on them both, and not thinking about where this all leaves him.

The bathroom is full of steam, clogging his lungs and choking him on its hot, cloying nothingness. He stumbles out of the shower, drying himself more roughly than usual before pressing the soft towel into his face and just pausing to breathe shakily in and out. Hillary wants nothing less than to go back out there and see Bryce’s hands on Lara, Lara’s mouth on Bryce, but. He can’t stay in here all night.

Hillary wipes the condensation off the mirror and examines himself as he brushes his teeth. It’s a moment of self-pity, and he knows that, but he can’t really help it. Bryce, small enough to fit in Lara’s clothes, is all slim lines and wiry skinniness; Lara is all charming curves and muscular hardness. Hillary is - sort of both, but mostly neither. He’s not as built as Lara, not as slim as Bryce; an ungainly mix of bulk and build that makes him boxy but not buff. He scratches his jaw, frowning, and compares his face’s dour, square features to Bryce’s softer, open ones. Bryce has a sweeter cast to his face that makes his every mood shine through in a way that is endearingly easy to read, and they lean towards bright and cheery far more often than Hillary’s ever do, as his frown lines are permanent testament to.

He drops his hand from his face with a sigh. A choice between himself and Bryce seems unfairly weighted in the other’s favour; he cannot blame Lara for her choice.

Hillary pulls on his boxers and undershirt again. He’s too big for Lara’s clothes, so it’ll have to do. He knocks gently on the door to the silent bedroom and opens it slowly.

The room is still and swathed in darkness, so it takes his eyes a moment to adjust. It all seems much as he left it, excluding the darkness and the two lumps curled up under the blankets. They aren’t touching, but perhaps they aren’t tactile sleepers.

“It’s not too late to join us,” Lara suggests as he pads to his own blanket at the foot of the bed.

 _Not too late to get in the bed, no,_ Hillary thinks, _but too late for everything else._ “Goodnight, Lara,” he says firmly.

“If you change your mind,” Bryce yawns sleepily.

Hillary rolls on his side, back to them, and screws his eyes closed.

* * *

Around six he gives up on sleeping and gets up. His back, as Lara had predicted, hurts like hell after a night on the floor and he hobbles to the door, collecting Lara’s dressing gown on the way and wrapping it around himself.

Walking helps him straighten up and he heads to his own room first for proper clothes. Dressed at last in something clean and neat, Hillary feels immediately better. The house, quiet and empty without the others awake, is also refreshingly free of the need for pretense and Hillary almost feels light as he collects a change of clothes for Bryce and places them just inside Lara’s room.

In the kitchen, he sips his coffee and watches the light bleed further and further across the table until it skims his fingers, then he stands and begins to work.

Lara and Bryce won’t be awake yet, but in half an hour or so they’ll want bacon and eggs and coffee and fruit. He supposes he’ll make the same for Wyndham-Quin, put a tray together and take it to his room and then the quiet peace of the morning can continue just that little bit longer. Hillary spins a frying pan idly in his hands and gets to work, setting the coffee machine off once more. He tries not to think about where he will eat breakfast if Lara and Bryce want the morning to themselves.

One tray he fills with three plates, the other with just one and a note reading: _The family are dining in bed this morning and recommend you do the same._ On official Croft-letterheaded note paper, it should be clear to Wyndham-Quin that Lara shares the desire to avoid him.

He takes breakfast up to Lara and Bryce first so that the smell of coffee can slowly wake them. They’re curled together in the middle of the bed, having seemingly rolled in the night to emerge in the golden dawn light a ball of entangled limbs. Lara’s plait is lying out behind her, Bryce’s hair a nest of tousled curls. The image is so endearingly domestic that Hillary can’t breathe, the jealous voyeur of something so simple as just sweet, tactile affection.

The distraction of carrying the other breakfast to their guest is an almost welcome one, especially as Wyndham-Quin is not yet awake and therefore delivering no sardonic, scathing wit.

An added advantage is that, by the time Hillary returns, Bryce and Lara have woken up and disentangled. The jealous voyeur on one’s own is one thing - Hillary’s not yet ready to have it confronted.

Lara offers him a sweet, sleepy smile and his heart flip-flops concerningly in his chest. “G’morning.”

He tries not to beam too enthusiastically back. “Good morning, Lara. Good morning, Bryce.” This last is slightly louder, as the other man rolls over to bury his face in the pillow and groan loudly.

“Izzere coffee?” the lump of bedhead formerly known as Bryce mumbles.

“There is,” Hillary says, handing Lara a mug as she shuffles up the bed to lean against the headboard. “There is also bacon, eggs, fruit, and a promise to avoid the guest a little longer.”

Bryce rolls onto his back again and grins up at him through half-lidded eyes. “I love you, mate.”

Hillary’s heart flip-flops again, and he does his best to leave that unacknowledged. He hadn’t thought he was as affection-starved as all that.

Bryce sits up and copies Lara. They leave a good six inches between their shoulders, to his surprise, but Hillary can’t quite figure out how to tell them that he knows and it’s alright, even though it isn’t really, so he leaves it alone. Instead, he places the tray between them, removes his own breakfast and makes a strategic retreat to the armchair in the corner.

“Come sit with us,” Bryce says, gesturing to the bed. Lara even obligingly shifts to one side, closer to Bryce, but Hillary waves them off.

“I’m fine here, thank you.”

Lara frowns briefly, but doesn’t fight him on it. “How did you get rid of John, then?”

“Breakfast in bed for us all. We shouldn’t be expected to see him until nine, ten, maybe.” Bryce chugs half his coffee in one and chases it with a huge mouthful of scrambled eggs; Hillary, reluctantly accustomed to this by now, merely winces.

“You’re a genius,” Bryce says through his mouthful, and this time Lara rolls her eyes too and he swallows before continuing. “And this is really good, thanks.”

Lara nods her agreement and Hillary shifts awkwardly in his seat. “Yes, well. I suppose I’d better get started on the washing up,” he says, standing.

“No, don’t go yet,” Lara says, reaching out. “At least stay until we’ve finished eating.”

Bryce nods enthusiastically. “You can have my bacon.” This earns him a huff of amusement from Hillary and, emboldened by this success, he presses his advantage. “And I’ll help you, if you wait for me to get dressed.”

Lara looks mock-offended. “You’re going to leave me with John? Alone?”

“And I’m not sure you’re ever that helpful,” Hillary says, with a teasing smile. Bryce sputters, but Hillary does sit rather gingerly at the foot of the bed. Lara and Bryce both grin at him for it before continuing the argument, and Hillary is content to let the comforting domestic familiarity wash over him as the sun reaches further and further into the room, turning silverware and sheets to gold.

* * *

The peace of the morning is broken by the clashing, shrill ringing of the telephone. Hillary springs up and walks briskly, not quite jogging, down the corridor to the nearest phone.

“Good morning. Croft Manor, Hillary speaking.” The familiar greeting rolls off his tongue without thought as his brain adjusts from friendly domesticity to actual domestic service.

“Oh. It’s you,” the voice on the other end says, disappointed and sneering.

Hillary takes a moment to question whom, exactly, Lara’s Aunt Agatha thought would be answering the telephone if _not_ the butler. “Good morning, Lady Basset. How may I assist you?”

“Put my niece on the line,” the old woman snaps.

“Certainly, madam,” Hillary says, putting as much deference into his tone as will fit. An unfortunate side effect of working for Lara for so long, however, is that he’s half forgotten how. “Please wait.”

He removes the receiver from his ear and carries it back to Lara’s room, knocking smartly upon the wood. “Lady Basset for you, Lady Croft,” he says as he opens the door, aware that Aunt Agatha can still hear him and that they all need the warning to be aunt-appropriate in the background.

“Thank you, Hillary,” Lara says, rolling her eyes as she reaches out for the handset. Bryce rolls off the bed and accepts the pile of clothes Hillary hands him with a sleepy smile, yawning as he heads into the bathroom and closes the door quietly. “Hello, Aunt Agatha,” Lara says. Hillary raises his eyebrows and points to the door - _do you want me to go?_ Lara shakes her head and waves him back to the bed as she slumps against the headboard again. Hillary hesitantly takes Bryce’s place beside her and she grins at him. From here, he can hear, tinnily, Aunt Agatha talk non-stop, without pause for Lara to respond; Lara seems resigned to this, so he assumes it’s fairly standard.

“Why has John been calling you, Aunt?” Lara interrupts at last. There is a pause for a reply, and she raises her eyebrows. “I see,” she says coolly. “Well, that’s terribly sweet, in a sort of entitled, puppyish way, but I really won’t be dropping everything to become Lara Wyndham-Quin.” Another pause. “Perhaps never. I shall remain Lara Croft all my life, and you can scowl at your bastard grand-nieces and -nephews to your heart’s content.” She rolls her eyes and Hillary tries not to smile. “I’m _not_ being snippy with you, Aunt, just-” She is cut off, and sighs. Lara rolls her head to look at Hillary, giving him a tired look. He fails to entirely conceal his amusement and she grins.

Then Lara sits up straight, smile falling away. “He told you?” she says, sounding worried, and Hillary can guess where this is going. “No - it wasn’t a secret, exactly, just- ...Well, I knew you’d be like this, so I didn’t tell you.” After this follows another pause. Hillary ducks his head, twining his fingers together and wishing he was somewhere, _anywhere,_ but here.

The pause goes on too long and he looks up at last. Lara is _furious._ She’s getting whiter with rage by the second and her fingers are tightening on the phone until Hillary begins to worry that the plastic will crack. “No, Aunt Agatha,” she says, voice thunderous.

Bryce sticks his head out of the bathroom, dressed but with a toothbrush still in his mouth and looking alarmed. He looks to Hillary for an explanation and receives only a shrug.

“I am _not_ ashamed of them. I am _not_ ashamed of how I feel. I’ll come to your damn dinner party with both of them or alone; I will _not_ be coming with John Wyndham-Quin.” Aunt Agatha’s voice still shrieks from the phone as Lara removes it from her ear, cut off by one jab of a button and then flung across the room.

The room seems more silent than ever in the aftermath. “Lara?” Bryce says tentatively.

She waves him over. “Come here.” He loses his toothbrush and obeys, standing by Hillary’s knees. Lara grabs his hips, spins him neatly and tugs him back so that he stumbles into sitting between Lara and Hillary’s legs, his own slung over Hillary’s thighs. Before either of them can respond to this, she wraps her arms around them both and draws them close in a crushing hug.

After a second’s pause to wrap his head around this, Bryce returns the gesture just as enthusiastically until Hillary is the only one left squished between them and thoroughly confused. Tentatively he brings his own arms up, settling one on Lara’s shoulders and the other between Bryce’s shoulderblades. Against his every expectation, they both relax a fraction more when he does so, as if waiting for him to accept their suddenly-inflicted affection.

“What happened?” Bryce says gently, voice muffled by Hillary’s shoulder.

Lara shrugs under their hands, keeping her head buried in Bryce’s neck. “She was just - rude. She knows about-” she gestures in a circular motion with one hand, “-this. Well, what we told John, anyway. She’s throwing a dinner-dance tonight and wants me to come with John. I won’t. We argued.”

Hillary desperately wants to know about Lara isn’t ashamed of, but he won’t press. He squeezes her shoulder gently and her thumb rubs his back in return.

“So now it’s go stag, conveniently at the same time as John, or not go at all and risk Aunt Agatha’s wrath. Even more than I already have.” Lara pulls her head back and smiles without much joy at them both.

She looks so desperately sad and tired of her family’s matchmaking that Hillary will do almost anything to prevent it. “We could come with you,” he blurts out.

Lara and Bryce blink at him, incredulous, as the hug falls slowly away. Hillary finds himself mourning the loss.

“Or, at least one of us,” he amends. “If - if you like. If it would help.”

Hesitantly, Lara begins to smile. “I’m up for it,” Bryce says, shrugging.

“You’d really do that?” Lara asks.

Hillary rubs the back of his neck and demurs awkwardly. “Well, if Bryce wants to go, then-”

“No backing out now!” Bryce says. “I want to see you dance.”

“I don’t dance,” Hillary says quickly.

“I want to see him in a tux,” Lara drawls, running an eye over him lasciviously. Hillary’s heart swoops in his chest and he tries not to react; they’re too close for him to be quite so aroused as he is. Bryce’s legs are in his lap, damn it. He opens his mouth, but Lara cuts him off. “And don’t say you don’t wear tuxedos; the alternative is nothing at all, and we’ll be making quite a stir enough as it is.”

Bryce makes an odd choking noise and then clears his throat loudly. “I, uh, actually don’t have a tux. And I really don’t want to go naked.”

Lara frowns thoughtfully. “Hillary, I don’t suppose you’ve a spare we could adjust for him?”

“When you say we, I suppose you mean me?” he says dryly and Lara smiles winningly. “Yes, I do. But we’ll have to leave you alone with John all day if I’m to tailor it before tonight.”

Bryce looks at him, impressed. “Is there nothing he can’t do?” he says to Lara.

“Not that I’ve found,” Lara says, smiling.

Hillary rolls his eyes and shifts away, pushing Bryce’s legs off him. “Alright, alright. Come on, Bryce, you promised to help wash up and then I’ll sort your suit.”

* * *

“Arms up.”

Bryce obeys, and Hillary frowns thoughtfully at the shirt hanging rather loosely from the smaller man’s frame.

“Hmph. You’re sure you don’t have a white shirt?”

Bryce grimaces apologetically. “Sorry. We can’t all have two tuxedos.”

“Why not?” Hillary mutters, bending over to pin the shirt back. “It would be much easier.”

Bryce twists to look back and down at Hillary, who pushes his shoulder back until he stands square again, twisting his head. “Why do you have two?”

“Got too fat for this one,” he says through a mouthful of pins, straightening and squinting at the fit across the shoulders.

“You’re not fat,” Bryce scoffs.

Hillary shrugs, turning his attention to the cuffs.

“I’m serious. You’re not,” Bryce says more emphatically.

“Alright,” Hillary says, pinning and adjusting. “But I’m not skinny, and I’m too big for this suit. That’s all.”

Bryce is silent for a moment as Hillary moves to the left cuff. “I’m glad,” he says at last.

Hillary almost puts the pin though Bryce’s wrist. “I’m sorry?”

“I’m glad you’re not skinny.” Bryce makes very earnest eye contact and, much as he would like to, Hillary can’t look away. “I think you’re a very nice shape. Sort of - solid.”

Hillary raises an eyebrow, moving up to Bryce’s collar. “Thanks,” he says dryly.

“I mean it! It’s nice. And you’re all muscle-y, like you could protect m- people.” Bryce drops his hands to his sides, keeping his eyes on Hillary’s face.

“I’m not as... _muscle-y_ as Lara.”

“ _No-one_ is as muscle-y as Lara,” Bryce says, and Hillary huffs a laugh despite himself. “I mean it, though,” Bryce repeats, seriously. “You’re a nice shape and you shouldn’t feel bad about it.”

Hillary drops his eyes to Bryce’s top button, his fingers holding the points of Bryce’s collar gently. “Thank you,” he says at last.

Then Hillary pulls away, goes to the table and fusses with the pins there to calm down. He’s not quite used to all this affection yet - an actual relationship might make his head explode.

“What’s Lara going to wear, d’y’know?”

“Not sure,” Hillary says, returning to Bryce with more pins and some measuring tape and dropping to his knees to examine the trousers. “Probably the blue Dior gown - do you have a belt? Here, have mine - or the new green dress.” Bryce fumbles with the belt loops after Hillary takes off his own belt and passes it to him, so Hillary, standing, gently removes it from his hands and deftly encircles him with his arms to pass the belt around before securing it neatly at his front. Bryce is almost carefully still, so Hillary gives him a grateful pat on the hip as he kneels back down to pin the cuffs a little shorter. “I don’t think she’s bought a new one recently, but she will actually have to wear one.”

“Hm,” Bryce says, seemingly with some difficulty.

“I’ll just do an inner-leg measurement and then the jacket, and you’re done,” Hillary says, interpreting this as a desire to sit down at last.

“No, don’t-” Bryce says quickly, putting a hand over his crotch.

Hillary follows the movement and - “Oh.”

Bryce give him an uncomfortable and apologetic look. “It’s just-”

“Lara in the dress?” Hillary says, rather sympathetically, but still kneeling between Bryce’s legs with his face at crotch height, unaware of how this might look from the other man’s angle and where his thoughts might take him.

“Ye-es,” Bryce says, rather strained.

Hillary hands him the other end of the tape. “You hold that and think calming thoughts.” Bryce nods awkwardly and does as he’s told. Hillary charitably gives him a little longer than he needs to note down the measurement at the table.

Bryce seems better when he turns around, though still beet red and uncomfortable. Hillary, ever the trained butler, doesn’t react but simply holds out the suit jacket for Bryce to shrug into. He buttons the jacket quickly, glancing assessingly over Bryce, and smartly pins back the sleeves. He takes it in at the back as he had the shirt, but now Bryce is quiet and still, and Hillary feels encouraged to get it over with quickly.

“There,” he says at last, brushing his hands across the shoulders. “All done. Leave it with me for a few hours.”

Bryce nods, offering him a tight smile. “Thanks.” He nods at the door. “Give me a minute to change?”

Hillary nods, too often mystified by Bryce to wonder why he now wants privacy when he hadn’t before, and steps away. “Oh! Belt,” he says, reaching a hand out.

Bryce flinches his hips away, fingers hurriedly fussing at the buckle. “Here,” he says breathlessly, thrusting the belt at Hillary and scurrying away toward the table.

Hillary blinks at the belt in confusion, before giving up and leaving Bryce to...whatever it was that had got him so jumpy. The man is a mystery.

* * *

Lara does wear the blue Dior, tight silk in a floor-length column with a slit to mid thigh on one side. She looks gorgeous. Hillary won’t survive the night.

Bryce looks pretty smart, too, he thinks as he looks down on them both in the entrance hall from the mezzanine corridors. The dark suit brings out the paleness in his skin and emphasises his trim form, and with Lara laughing and distracting him, he relaxes into it until they both look like they were born to wear such finery. Bryce looks - well, he looks damn attractive, actually.

Hillary tells himself he’s appreciating the good tailoring job he’s done on the suit. It doesn’t quite ring true.

He tugs his cuffs and trots down the stairs to join them, watching his polished shoes glint against the plush carpet runner. When he looks up again at the bottom, both Lara and Bryce are staring at him, mouths slightly open. His eyes narrow slightly. “What?”

Bryce swallows hard. “Nothing,” he manages.

Lara slowly grins, predatory in a way that goes straight to his crotch. “I was right about you looking good in a tux,” she says at last.

* * *

Wyndham-Quin is encouraged to take a different taxi, for which Hillary is grateful on many counts. Pretending to date Lara and Bryce has become more fun; their guest’s company has not.

This way, too, John doesn’t see how hard Hillary is trying not to react, as Lara’s bare leg brushes against his hand through the slit in her dress, as he catches Bryce’s reflection in the window, as he has a tiny internal crisis about why he’s having to try.

* * *

Hillary, half-full of red wine, is in a philosophical mood.

Introductions to the Aunt had been fairly awful, as expected, especially since Wyndham-Quin had beaten them here and warned Lady Basset to expect the worst. Her greeting for Lara had been polite and familial but distant, disapproval radiating from her in waves. To Bryce and Hillary, she had merely inclined her head before looking away as quickly as possible.

After that, they had been released into the general invitees. Most had been polite, and Hillary had actually maintained a rather good chat about vintage cars with some Lord or another, but a few had been sniffy. Not because they knew that he and Bryce were, technically, staff, but because they weren’t Lords or Barons. Lady Basset was displeased with her niece, but she was not going to have the family sullied before guests by admitting that the reason for her annoyance was that the beaus of Lara’s choice actually worked for her.

The other guests were surprisingly calm about Lara’s having two such beaus, as well. Despite this, Bryce tended to remain near Hillary for security and they both orbited Lara, moon and planet and sun.

Dinner, after two days with John Wyndham-Quin, was pretty much par for the course. Lara, Hillary and Bryce largely ate in silence, speaking only when spoken to, as to avoid the notice of Aunt Agatha and John. The meal, therefore, dragged, but was not outright awful.

Now, Hillary is propping up the bar and sipping his wine, idly watching Lara and Bryce talk to a lady Lara’s age who he believes went to school with Lara, and someone Hillary presumes is her wife. He’s quite content to stay here and people-watch the talkers and dancers until Lara and Bryce collect him to go home.

The universe, apparently, has other ideas. “Not going to dance?” John Wyndham-Quin says, sliding onto the barstool next to Hillary.

“Not much of a dancer, I’m afraid,” he says tightly, drinking more of his wine and deliberately relaxing his rather firm grip on the glass.

“Shame,” John says, leaning back on the bar and looking out over the room. His gaze is predatory, but unlike Lara’s; he looks for a vulnerability to exploit where she looks to take and have and protect for her own. “Perhaps, if you boys can’t handle a dance, I’ll take her for a spin.”

Hillary glares at him, downs the remainder of his wine and storms from the bar. John is at his heels as they circle the dancefloor to join Lara and Bryce. They both look up and frown slightly and he makes an effort to stop looking so furious. “Lara, I’m so sorry to intrude, but would you care to dance?” He holds out his hand, trying to be calm and collected and not terrified she’ll say no and dance with Bryce or - worse - John instead.

She looks at his hand, and then back at his face, and then smiles and he can breathe again. Her hand is small and delicate in his and Hillary loves the feel of leading her to the dancefloor, but he loves even more the knowledge that this small hand could and has flipped him to the floor and protected their home from harm.

Lara places one hand on her shoulder and he lets his own rest, light as air, on her waist. She looks up at him and fixes him with a steady, inscrutable gaze as they step forward, side, together; back, side, together. Her eyes are dark, glinting in the light of the chandelier they dance beneath, lips soft and slightly parted. The room spins more than they do as the wine hits Hillary’s head at last and he has to tighten his grip on her hand. He can’t break away from her eyes.

She stills in the middle of the dancefloor and he stumbles to a halt, pressing their chests together. The wine fuzzes the edges of his vision, all soft-focus and sweetness, as they breathe against each other.

Lara tilts her head to look at him. “Dear Hillary,” she says, barely audible over the band, and he leans in to hear better, allowing the rest of the world to fade away. “I-”

There is a rush of applause and the world floods back in as the song ends, drowning Lara out. He looks blankly at her as she speaks, too quiet to hear, and she sighs and smiles a little sadly at his incomprehension. “Never mind,” she says loudly, pulling him back to where they had left Bryce with Wyndham-Quin.

John raises an eyebrow, smirking. “My turn?” he says, offering a hand.

“Bryce’s, actually,” Lara says, ignoring his hand in favour of grabbing Bryce. The startled technician barely has time to pass his glass of something sweet, pink and alcoholic to Hillary before he’s on the dancefloor, being taught where to put his hands and feet in a crash-course in waltzing.

Lara tips her head back and laughs as Bryce giggles his way through a stumbling dance and Hillary has to swallow hard as the light shines on the column of her throat and turns strands of Bryce’s hair to gold.

Wyndham-Quin makes a sour face. “The man can’t even dance,” he says scathingly.

“So they’ll probably be at it a while,” Lara’s old schoolmate says mildly. “You’d better find a new partner.”

“Mmm,” Hillary agrees, sipping at Bryce’s cocktail. “I’ll dance with you, if you like.”

John glowers at him and stalks away.

Hillary shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

Lara’s friend, laughing, introduces herself and her wife as Esme and Tina Moncrieff, and is very polite about Hillary’s attempt to be sober. The illusion is damaged by the hot pink cocktail that he can’t seem to stop drinking.

“John’s a rotter, really; I’m awfully sorry he’s staying with you,” Esme says.

“He’s brought us closer together, really,” Hillary says, trying not to laugh at his own joke and scare the nice lady. “And Lara would never marry him, so it’s only a matter of time before he buggers off - ah, moves out.”

Esme looks pleased. “Good man. Keep your chin up.” Across the room Lara laughs again and Hillary looks over to watch them dance and laugh together somewhat wistfully. “Don’t you know any three-person dances?” Esme says.

“Bryce barely knows any two-person dances,” Hillary says dryly, finishing off the cocktail.

Esme checks her watch. “Well, you’ve probably been here long enough by now; you fetch those two and make your escape whilst I distract John.”

The idea of going home and taking off his suit and not pretending to be posh anymore might be the closest thing to heaven Hillary can imagine right now. “Thank you,” he says emphatically, before stumbling across the dancefloor to grab Lara and Bryce by the arms. “Let’s go.”

“Hillary?” Lara says, smiling, even as she leads them towards the doors. “What have you done?”

“Nothing!” he complains over Bryce’s giggling. “I just want to go home.”

Bryce insinuates himself under Hillary’s arm, snuggling into his side. The warm weight of him makes Hillary stumble slightly as Lara pulls him along by the hand, but it’s comforting and welcome anyway. Lara looks over her shoulder at them both cuddled together as she opens the taxi door and smiles. “Alright,” she says fondly. “Let’s go home.”

* * *

Hillary is sitting on the end of Lara’s bed, eyes closed and half-snoozing in his tux as the other two move around him. Lara’s shoes were the first to go, high heels kicked into a corner to be dealt with - probably by Hillary - tomorrow, chased by her jewels and then her dress in favour of comfortable silk pajamas. She and Hillary then sat on the bed and laughed at Bryce’s failure to remember how, exactly, and in what order Hillary had dressed him in the tux and thus unable to escape it.

Eventually, Hillary had worked his shoelaces undone while Lara fussed with the tiny buttons and together they peeled Bryce free of the suit and threw his sleepwear at him - still Lara’s shirt and trousers. Then they’d both left Hillary for a moment to brush their teeth and Hillary is suddenly now too tired to do anything but sit very still and doze.

Until he rather suddenly isn’t, because the door is opening and there is an intruder entering.

Time seems to slow as John, angry and drunk, comes into Lara’s room. Bryce and Lara are leaving the bathroom and Hillary shoves Bryce back as he stands. Lara and he create a barrier between the threat and Bryce, immediately battle-ready.

“Lara!” John bellows. “Give up on this nonsense! Come with me, and-”

He takes a step forward and is cut off rather smartly by Lara’s fist smacking him neatly in the cheekbone. Hillary barrels forward, battering-ram style, and takes him out of the room, down the corridor and into his own room with a ruthless efficiency that would impress a Six Nations team.

Door closed on him and locked, Hillary runs back to Lara and Bryce, ignoring the muffled yelling. “Are you both alright?” he asks, a little more frantically than the situation warrants.

“Yes, we’re fine; you? Where’s John?” Lara says, similarly shaken.

“Fine, fine.” Hillary runs a hand through his curls, coming down from his agitation. “I, uh, I locked him in his room.”

“Good,” Bryce says emphatically, curled up on the bed and visibly upset. Hillary is reminded that Bryce never was as good at dealing with invaders.

Lara sits beside him and wraps an arm around his shoulders. Hillary enters the bathroom and slowly removes his tux, adding each part to the pile of crumpled suit Bryce has abandoned there. He dresses again in his pajamas and brushes his teeth before going back into the bedroom.

Unlike previously, the light is still on, showing Lara curled up on one side with Bryce in the middle. “Sleep in the bed tonight,” Lara says.

“Please,” Bryce says in a small voice.

Hillary cannot resist. He clambers under the covers on Bryce’s other side, placing himself between them and the door, and shuts off the light.

In the darkness, Bryce cuddles into his chest, burying his face in Hillary’s solid bulk. Lara’s hand reaches over him to land on Hillary’s side and his hand rests on the curve of her hip. It occurs to him, then, that he might be also super in love with Bryce, but decides to deal with that later. In this, the most perfect position Hillary can currently imagine, it takes him no time at all to fall asleep.

* * *

Someone pokes him in the shoulder. “Gnnph,” Hillary says, mashing his face further into the warmth before his nose and tightening his grip on...whatever. It doesn’t matter.

There is poorly-stifled giggling, and then his shoulder is poked again. “Hillary,” Lara says, sing-song and laughing. “It’s time to wake up, darling.”

The lump he’s hugging shakes with giggles and Hillary has a whole bunch of realisations about what is going on right now. He tenses. The lump - Bryce - pokes his hands where they’re fixed around the man’s stomach. “Free me, you great big teddy bear. I need a piss.”

Hillary’s hands jump apart as if burned and he opens his eyes gingerly to watch Bryce wriggle rather urgently down the bed between his bedfellows and disappear into the bathroom.

Lara’s sitting up against the headboard and smiling gently down at him. “Sleep well?” she inquires teasingly.

Hillary groans, blushing, and rolls to bury his face in the pillow. His heart is beating twenty times too fast, waiting for cruel laughter and unceremonious dismissal.

Long, tapered fingers comb gently through his curls in slow, soothing strokes. “Hey,” Lara says softly, and Hillary feels himself relax despite his panicky fear. “You’re okay. It’s alright.”

His mouth opens into the sheets before he can stop himself, and his voice, when it comes, is small and scared and muffled. “Really?”

“Mm-hmm,” Lara hums affirmingly. “You’re just fine.”

Hillary relaxes entirely, sinking bonelessly into the mattress as Lara continues to gently stroke his hair. Then he abruptly freezes. “What time is it?” he asks, sitting up and dislodging Lara’s hand.

Lara frowns at the clock. “Eleven, why-”

“Oh God, I’m a terrible butler.” He rolls out of bed and onto his feet, sparing a glance at the bathroom where Bryce still is. “Right,” Hillary says, casting around for some clothes. “I’ll start the roast now, it’ll be fine; send Bryce to let Wyndham-Quin out and tell him where he can find me if he needs anything.”

“I could always let him out myself,” Lara says, watching Hillary button a shirt at double speed, both amused and impressed. “I’d love to see his face.”

“Send Bryce,” Hillary says firmly, fighting the buttons on his waistcoat.

Lara raises one eyebrow delicately and Hillary gulps around his half-tied tie. “And why can’t I go?” she says, with half-feigned lightness.

Hillary can feel the flush rising up his neck through the cloth of his tie and collar both. “After last night-” he says awkwardly. “I just - maybe you shouldn’t be alone with him.”

“Because I can’t handle him?” Lara says, unimpressed.

“No, because you shouldn’t have to.” Hillary shrugs into his jacket, and lets out the breath he was holding when Lara nods in concession.

“Bryce,” she says, as the man leaves the bathroom. “Go and let our guest out, won’t you? I’ll give you a raise if you can get his face on camera.”

“It’s what my bugs were made for.” He makes a face. “Well, not exactly. But I can do it. I can do you one better though - come with me.” Bryce is sitting on the edge of the bed, taking far too long to fuss with his shoelaces and hide his face. Lara and Hillary exchange a look.

“Still get a picture. I’ve a mind to frame it, and shouldn’t like to be left out,” Hillary says mildly, quickly striding across the room and into the bathroom to run a toothbrush around his mouth.

When he comes back in, Bryce seems a little less skittish and he and Lara are planning the best place to hide a camera. Hillary smiles (all too fondly) at them and they wave him out.

In the kitchen, he sets immediately to work on the roast that really ought to have been roasting by now. He prepares the meat and vegetables with ease born of familiarity and practise and a strong cup of coffee, leaving his brain free to just - enjoy the odd floaty sensation in his stomach and the tingles on his arms and scalp and the lack of back pain this morning.

Even Wyndham-Quin, slouching into a chair at the kitchen table and looking like death, cannot spoil his good humour. “Coffee, please.”

Hillary raises his eyebrows and obliges. Perhaps rugby tackling him had imbued some manners.

“Don’t be bloody _smug_ with me,” John sneers. “Last night was a fluke.”

Perhaps not. Hillary returns his attention to the roasting dish. “Indubitably, sir,” he says with practised flatness.

“You know,” says Wyndham-Quin, gesturing around them at the kitchen, “if you were a proper butler, you wouldn’t cook as well.”

“Yes, sir,” Hillary says, most of his mind turning over roasting times and when he ought to call the family for lunch.

There is a mean little pause before John strikes again. “If she really loved you, she wouldn’t have you work for her.”

This actually gets his attention, since he’s half-inclined to think it true. But Hillary does, actually, despite his complaining and grumpiness, really like this job. If he really were with Lara and Bryce, he would like to keep working and he knows Bryce would too. They’d probably do it, paid or not. Besides, he can still feel Lara’s nails gently parting his curls and the calm that came with it, so he simply raises his eyebrows at John. “Will that be all, sir?”

John slams his mug onto the table, slopping coffee over the sides. “Damn it, man, what _has_ happened to your hair?”

Hillary blinks, and then catches sight of himself in the bottom of a copper pan. His hair is sticking up wildly with a combination of bedhead and idle backcombing; he looks - well, sort of - ravished.

To use a word from terrible romance novels which he _absolutely does not read._

Hillary shrugs sheepishly at Wyndham-Quin. “Lara…” he says helplessly.

Wyndham-Quin gives him a foul look and stalks out of the kitchen.

* * *

John is contrite and polite at lunch, though Bryce is pleased to note that Lara is not remotely charmed.

He does, however, make various noises about his drunkenness being the reason for his unceremonious removal last night, which leaves them here: Hillary fussing over various weapons, Bryce ensconced in the window seat on his laptop, and Lara and John warming up. Technically this is only training, which Lara usually does on a Sunday afternoon anyway, but there’s no secret to what’s really going on here. John thinks he’s going to prove himself; Hillary and Bryce are looking forward to watching him be pummelled into the floor.

After the warm-up - jogging, stretching, some weights, more jogging - John already looks more tired than Lara. Bryce is beginning to wish he had brought popcorn, idly tapping at his laptop without paying the code much attention. Similarly, Hillary is largely ignoring the staves and swords in favour of a tiny snide smile. He meets Bryce’s eyes and grins evilly, making him startle a laugh which he quickly hides behind his laptop screen.

John and Lara begin to circle each other. Hillary appears to be acting as some kind of referee, but as far as Bryce can tell there aren’t any rules. John tries a punch at Lara’s head, but she ducks away and lands a kick on his knee. Then they start moving so fast that Bryce really hasn’t any idea what’s going on.

Lara moves fluidly, with absolute and deadly control down to her every fingertip. She moves with perfect precision, but without the studied air John has. Her moves are all improvised, but based on years and years of training. John’s been trained, Bryce can tell - not least because untrained people tend to go down right away - but not as well or as often, and he relies on the exact moves he has been taught. As consequence, he’s losing ground and taking far more hits than he delivers.

Lara, grinning and wild, is beautiful. She has power in every inch of her and uses it all to devastating effect, all speed and flips, tanned skin almost glowing in the afternoon sun that streams past Bryce into the room. He could watch her for hours.

Suddenly he notices Hillary stand up straighter, frowning. Then he spots that John has somehow acquired a large hunting knife. Bryce has no idea what the rules are, but he feels like this should be against them.

Lara seems undeterred, however, continuing to fight before efficiently smacking the knife from his grip, swiping his legs from beneath him and catching the knife to point it at John where he lies, panting, at her feet.

She raises an eyebrow.

Lara doesn’t even look _tired._ Bryce resists the urge to whoop and cheer.

“I give in,” Wyndham-Quin grinds out.

Lara grins and hands the knife back to Hillary. “Are you finished?” Hillary asks, returning the hunting knife to its place.

She spares a glance at John, limping to the side of the room to slump against the walls, and grins. “Get your kit on, then.”

Hillary is clearly swallowing another evil grin as he bows his head shortly and leaves to change. Bryce is happy to fuss over his code as Lara drinks some water and towels off, both of them ignoring Wyndham-Quin’s slight wheezing.

When Hillary returns, Bryce loses all the breath in his lungs very quickly. He’s used to Lara in tight workout clothes, but not to Hillary in anything other than a suit. A white t-shirt and fairly tight shorts is, therefore, of some...interest. Bryce spares a moment to be grateful for the positioning of his laptop to hide the stirrings of said interest and to promise to watch them both train more often, before settling in to watch.

Their warm-up is quick, before getting in to the fight. In Bryce’s opinion, there are still no rules, and he has even less idea what was going on now than he did before. Lara and Hillary are both moving much faster with the improvised precision that he’d noted before. She’s quicker but he’s stronger and they’re fairly well-matched, dancing about each other and dodging more often than they hit.

Bryce, warmed by the sun and watching their powerful dance, feels a kind of lazy arousal coiling in his belly. Hillary’s grinning, and Lara too, both keyed up on adrenaline. He’s clearly enjoying playing his part in fighting for Lara’s affection, buzzing with smugness and superiority and an edge of competition that makes him better, stronger. Lara, lithe and lean, rises to meet him there. They’re both performing for Wyndham-Quin’s benefit, showing off to discourage his attention.

Bryce shifts his hips against the warm weight of his laptop, letting it press against him. This is Lara and Hillary at their physical best, and it’s the sexiest damn thing he’s ever seen. How he ever could have thought himself in love with Lara alone is, at this moment, beyond him. They move in tandem, together, perfectly suited. Hillary’s already been going four times longer than John, Lara longer than them both, and thinking of sweat and endurance and their wicked triumphant grins makes him shift again, uncomfortable in his trousers in the sweetest way.

Hillary stumbles and Lara presses her advantage, taking them both down. She sits astride his stomach, hands pressing against his chest and both of them breathing heavily. They’re silent, eyes locked on each other.

Bryce thinks he might come right there and then.

Then Lara pushes back, grinding her hips briefly against Hillary’s as she stands. “Thanks, darling,” she says, running her eyes down the length of his body. “I needed that.”

“Any time,” Hillary says, breathing hard. Bryce cannot blame him.

The door slams after Wyndham-Quin. They hadn’t even noticed him get up.

Lara smiles at the door. “That did get a little pissing-contest at the end there, didn’t it, boys?”

Hillary waves a hand absently before letting it flop back against the mat. “His fault.”

She looks back down at him. “Oh, I wasn’t remotely apologising.” Lara starts stretching, cat-like and curving. “What did you think, Bryce? How did we do?”

His jaw works hard for a moment before his voice comes back. “Good. Yeah. Very good.”

“There, Hillary, fifty per cent audience satisfaction.”

“Wonderful,” Hillary mumbles, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Go and have a shower, you awful woman, and let me breathe.”

Lara and Bryce laugh. She drops to her knees by his head and presses a kiss to his forehead. “Sorry, dear. You were splendid, by the way.”

He manages a small smile. “Shower. You smell.”

“So do you,” she says, grinning.

“I’m getting to it,” Hillary says, unmoving. “Give me a minute.”

“Lara,” Bryce says mock-chiding, “you’ve killed him!”

“I’m not dead!” Hillary objects, eyes slipping closed. “Comatose, perhaps.”

Lara gestures to him: _see?_ “Who’s going to make dinner, then?” Bryce points out.

“We will,” Lara says confidently. “How hard can it be?”

Hillary’s eyes snap open. “I’ll get better. You burn microwave meals.”

“You’ve cured him,” Bryce says, grinning. “It’s a miracle.”

Lara laughs and stands, grabbing Hillary’s hands and hauling him up with her. “Alright, we’ll shower. Coming, Bryce?”

He waves a hand, turning blindly back to his screen. “In a minute.” Friendly banter hadn’t done enough to calm his erection; the idea of Hillary and Lara showering together had undone the little it had achieved. Bryce might just sit here for a little while.

* * *

John leaves before dinner. Lara stands on the steps, waving him off with a triumphant grin she can’t quite resist.

Re-entering the house, she finds both Bryce and Hillary coincidentally in the hall as they finish other tasks. “Is he gone?” Bryce asks hopefully.

“At last,” she says, laughing as Hillary tries to hide his grin and Bryce treats them both to a little hopping, wild-armed triumphant dance. “This calls for a celebration.”

Which is how they all end up crushed onto a two-person sofa in front of the TV with cardboard pizza boxes on their laps and large glasses of wine on the coffee table. Lara ends up squished in the middle, her boys on either side of her, and with control of the remote.

“Ooh, that one,” Bryce says, kicking his legs as he points at a film on the screen and sending an avalanche of pizza down the sofa to Hillary.

“Mind my suit, you great oaf-” he says, flinching away from the tomato sauce and grease. “Oh, never mind.”

“Hillary,” Lara says, teasingly incredulous. “Are you taking off your suit? For something other than training and sleep?”

Hillary rolls his eyes, throwing his jacket in the general direction of a chair behind him. “Bloody hell, is he really?” Bryce says, leaning forward to get a good look. He gets thwacked with Hillary’s waistcoat for his troubles.

“Well, if you will insist on throwing pizza at me-”

“I did not! I-”

“We’re watching this film,” Lara interrupts, picking an action-adventure flick at random and trying not to laugh as both boys settle back down.

The film is fairly awful and they have a great time shredding its fight scenes (Lara), special effects (Bryce) and vague semblance of a plot (Hillary).

“At least he’s handsome,” Bryce says around a mouthful of pepperoni, gesturing with his slice at the protagonist.

Lara shrugs indifferently and Hillary raises his eyebrows. “But he’s absolutely your type, Lara. Look at him: amoral, adventurous, almost unfairly attractive, girl in every port.”

She raises her eyebrows back. “I had no idea you paid so much attention to my type.”

“An obvious pattern emerged,” he returns dryly.

“Maybe I’m turning over a new leaf,” she announces, turning back to the screen. “Besides, aren’t you two supposed to be noticing the pretty ladies?”

“We are,” Bryce says, pinching some pizza from Hillary’s box.

“We’re multitasking,” Hillary adds, swatting Bryce’s hand away when it tries again.

“Very commendable,” Lara says, trying not to notice too much as Hillary tugs off his tie and undoes his top buttons. It doesn’t help that the other side of her offers a lazily stretched-out Bryce, shirt riding up to show off a trail of dark hair heading southwards. It’s becoming difficult to focus on the film, so she - doesn’t.

Lara lets her gaze trail down the length of Hillary’s jaw and then the column of his neck, now open to her. She watches his chest rise and fall, his hair at the neck of his shirt much lighter and curlier than Bryce’s. She wants to feel them both under her palms, stroking and kissing and noting their differences.

She switches to Bryce, looking at his legs in their tight jeans and the way his shirt clings to his narrow chest. His eyes are as bright as they always are, attention fixed and full on the TV. She wants that attention all on her.

Turning back to Hillary, she finds him watching her, watching Bryce. Her breath catches in her throat, caught out - but he seems sad, and that’s not what she wants at all. She’s always been action-oriented; Lara reaches up to fit her hand to the back of his neck and presses her lips insistently to his.

There is a pause to account for surprise, and then, hesitantly, he begins to move against her lips and she can’t quite decide if she wants to beam or kiss him more. Kissing wins out, because it turns out he’s really rather good at it.

Lara flails a hand behind her and catches on Bryce’s hand. “Hmm? What - oh. Oh, fuck.” Bryce’s voice goes remarkably shaky, like he can’t entirely wrap his head around what’s going on her.

Seeing it as her duty to educate him, Lara gives Hillary one last kiss before turning in her seat. Bryce meets her half-way, no hesitation as he reaches up, one hand landing on her hip and the other going past her to Hillary. He kisses eagerly, but slows somewhat when she doesn’t appear to be stopping.

There is a shaky sigh from behind her, only barely audible over the TV. Bryce leans back to look at Hillary, who is breathing rather heavily and looks rather panicked. “Um, Hillary?” Bryce begins nervously. “You know when I told you I liked Lara?” Hillary nods, and Lara makes a mental note to ask them both about how long, exactly, this has been going on. She’d like to know how much time they wasted waiting for her to get so exasperated with her family’s suggested suitors to make a move on them. “I sort of failed to tell you I like you too.”

Hillary blinks. “Really?” he blurts out. “Both - both of you?”

“Yes,” Lara says rather emphatically. “Quite a lot, actually.”

Bryce nods. “Oh,” Hillary manages. “Oh, that’s, um.”

Lara rolls her eyes. “Kiss him, Bryce.”

Bryce grins and winks at her. “Gladly.” It takes a moment for them to figure out where to put their hands and faces, balancing across Lara’s lap, but when they do - oh.

She suddenly gets the boys’ reactions. Watching Hillary’s mouth move in a slick slide against Bryce, hearing the tiny noises Bryce makes, entangling her hands with them both; she can’t help a purr of pleasure that makes them break apart, breathing heavily.

“Fuck,” Hillary says conversationally, leaning his forehead against Bryce and looking down at Lara, who shrugs.

“If you like.”

Hillary looks briefly poleaxed, before bursting into uncontrollable giggles. Bryce soon follows him and they collapse into Lara’s lap. “Oh, God,” Hillary manages at last. “You can’t just - Lara, don’t do that to me.”

“Shame, I was rather looking forward to doing that to you.”

“Lara,” Bryce laughs, looking up at her, “you’ll kill him. You really will.”

She smiles down at them, stroking her fingers through their hair. Hillary melts obligingly into her leg. “Oh, alright then.” Lara folds over to kiss Bryce, playing with Hillary’s curls until he rolls over, pressing a kiss to her stomach.

She gasps into Bryce’s mouth. “Is this alright?” Hillary asks against her rib.

“Mm-hmm,” she manages, breathing heavily as Bryce nips at her lips and feeling arousal pool inches from Hillary’s head. “‘S good.”

Lara continues to kiss and be kissed. At some point, Bryce’s hand creeps up and gently tugs at Hillary’s hair. He hums happily, sending vibrations humming through her hip bone.

“Right,” Lara says decisively, but with some difficulty. “We’re moving this. Upstairs.”

Hillary tenses minutely but Bryce grins and grabs their hands. “Race you for middle spoon.”

“I think it’s Hillary’s turn,” Lara says, putting on a burst of speed to keep just ahead of Bryce but not leave Hillary behind.

“I actually like being the big...spoon,” Hillary says quietly and not without scorn for the phrasing.

Lara turns as she crosses the threshold of her room before Bryce and beams at him. “You’re a darling.”

Bryce wriggles under her arm, but Hillary seems half-inclined to just stand there, smiling like he can’t quite believe it, so she grabs his hands and tugs him inside with a kiss.

* * *

Everything’s warm and light when he wakes, which is rather unusual. His bed is usually cold, since he doesn’t take up very much of it on his own, and he’s usually awake before the light has a chance to bleed through the curtains.

Hillary blinks his eyes open and his vision settles blearily on dark hair in front of his nose and then, a little further away, the odd brownish-fox colour of Bryce’s hair. So, it wasn’t a dream, he notes with pleasure. The faint ache in his legs and the fact that Lara is pressed up against him, entirely naked, also give credibility to this theory.

He presses his face back into Lara’s neck, adjusts his hand on Bryce’s ribs, and goes back to sleep.

* * *

When he wakes again, Bryce has rolled over and is playing idly with Hillary’s fingers while talking quietly to Lara. Hillary catches hold of his hand and squeezes it, getting a bright smile in return. “Morning.”

Hillary hums as Lara shifts in his arms to crane her neck and kiss his jaw. “Hullo,” he says, voice rough with sleep.

“Mmm, I like early-morning rumbly-voiced Hillary,” Lara says happily, even as Hillary buries his face in her neck, embarrassed.

“‘S nice,” Bryce adds. “I like sweaty training Hillary and Lara.”

Lara raises an eyebrow at him as Hillary peeps out from behind her. “You liked that, yesterday, did you?”

Bryce nods. “I was so turned on it hurt,” he says very seriously.

Hillary’s eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline and he can’t think straight for a good minute. Lara laughs, delighted, and pulls him in for a kiss. “You little voyeur,” she says, in a voice that sends shivers down Hillary’s spine.

After some time, they end up cuddled up again in much the same positions as before but now more propped up against the headboard. “Can anyone remember what film we were watching last night?” Bryce says, head on Lara’s shoulder with Hillary’s hand in his hair.

“Not at all,” Lara yawns, leaning back against Hillary.

“It was terrible,” Hillary points out.

“It had a happy ending,” Bryce says.

Hillary frowns. “If we were there for the ending, we were not paying attention.”

Bryce holds one finger up and makes a circling motion around the three of them.

“I’m not sure how much of this we can blame on a sub-par action film,” Lara says dryly.

“If it had been better, we wouldn’t have stopped watching to make out,” Bryce says triumphantly.

Hillary blinks. “Your logic is - awful,” he says at last.

Bryce flutters his eyelashes at them with a grin, making Lara laugh. “You love my logic.”

Hillary is only human, and it feels so natural to say “I love you _despite_ your awful logic.”

So he does.

Bryce beams up at him and cuddles in closer. “Damn right,” he mumbles into Lara’s skin. Lara lifts Hillary’s hand and rewards him with a kiss, which he returns against the side of her neck.

The golden light of the summer mid-morning streams across the sheets, kissing their skin as they lie, tangled together so naturally. Hillary twists his fingers into Bryce’s, tugs them both closer into his arms, and is absolutely perfectly happy.


End file.
